


A Couple of Master Assassins

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses of Hawkeye and Black Widow's relationship, as well as the moments that led them to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nat

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2012 when I was eighteen and is now being crossposted here with the rest of my work. Please excuse any writing faux pas my teenage self committed.

Natasha awoke screaming.

She sat bolt upright, her body drenched in sweat, tremors making her body vibrate. Her eyes stared wildly into nothing, the images from her dream still imprinted firmly in her mind's eye.

An arm snaked up and around her shoulders, pulling her against a firm chest. A soothing voice murmured to her as the person pressed his lips to her ear.

"Nat; sshhh, Nat, it's okay."

While his attempts to soothe her were appreciated, Natasha needed more confirmation. She turned, her hands coming up to cup his face fiercely, gripping it and yanking it so that it was a mere breath in front of hers. Their noses brushed. Natasha babbled the entire time.

"Eyes… your eyes, Clint…"

He brought his hands up to cup her face, mirroring her actions, his hands rough but exceedingly gentle.

"I'm here, Nat. It's me."

Dark brown eyes stared into green-gray ones. Clint's eyes were the color of a sea in a storm or on a foggy day. Natasha searched desperately, but there was no hint of blue in those warm, strong depths.

Natasha completely broke down at that, sobbing into his shoulder as he held her. She didn't have to tell him what her dream was about. He could guess well enough.

Some people thought that time took away the nightmares. Those people were either idiots or liars. The nightmares never left. Some nights she was burning in the inferno that was once a Russian hospital. Other nights she was staring into the face of a poor, dead girl, the daughter of a politician. Lately it had been the cold, soulless eyes of Clint Barton while Loki's sly laugh rang in her ears.

She didn't know what "intimate" ways Loki would have forced Clint to kill her, but she could guess. Judging by the screams and moans of imagined remorse and grief that Clint gave out when his nightmares hit, rape was definitely involved.

Demigod or not, if she ever ran across that bastard again she was going to…

"C'mere, Nat," Clint whispered. She let herself go limp, allowing him to maneuver her body so that she was sitting in his lap, her back pressed against his chest, her legs stretched out in front of her. He wrapped one arm around her chest, while the other snaked beneath her panties.

Sex was always the best method for a) clearing her mind and b) relaxing her.

Clint pressed his mouth to her ear again as her head tipped back to rest on his shoulder. His fingers began to work in her, finding her sweet spot almost immediately.

"Nat…" He breathed into her ear, the nickname more intimate than any pet name.

* * *

_It was a simple job--set up the explosives, get the hell out of the way, and blow 'em sky-high. Then flee the country._

_Oh, and report to Fury at some point. Preferably before Coulson was dispatched to find them in some dive bar, toasting their victory with cheap beer (for him) and vodka (cliché, but whatever)._

_But, like all plans, this one didn't pan out the way it had on paper._

_No one could be blamed for what happened. It was a miscalculation by the explosives company, or a mistake made by Black Widow when she set it up. Maybe the wires were too hot, or the elements unstable. It didn't matter. What did matter was that it went off ten seconds too soon._

_Ten seconds before she got behind the blast wall._

_Hawkeye heard the blast, and felt a sickening thud against the wall. Instinct forced the name out, one that she'd only recently allowed him to use._

" _Natasha!"_

_He sprinted around the safety barrier and skidded to a halt in front of her limp body. Her eyes were closed and her back was a mess of charred flesh. Her clothes and hair were stained with blood, and a few bits of metal were embedded in the backs of her legs, her ass, and her shoulders._

_With a desperation that belied his years of training, he picked her up, cradling her head in the crook of his arm._

" _Natasha…" He said hoarsely. There was no time--he had to get them out of there before the authorities arrived. "Wake up, please… Romanov… Natasha…"_

_She didn't stir._

" _Please…" He was pleading now. "Come back to me, Nat."_

_He lifted her up so that he could press his lips against her ear._

" _Come back to me," he whispered. "Nat… come back, Nat…"_

_It was little more than a hoarse whisper, but her voice when she spoke was sweeter than any piece of music._

" _I could live with that nickname."_

_Slowly, her eyes cracked open._

_That was when he knew._

_He loved Natasha Romanov._

_His Nat._

* * *

"Let go, Nat," he whispered in her ear.

She was panting, her eyes open but unseeing, flashes of white heat dancing through her body. If he kept talking to her, his voice scratchy and heavy with arousal, she would be undone.

That appeared to be his goal.

"Let go, Nat. You're with me. I've got you. Just let go."

With a soundless cry that sent her body arching away from him, his arms the only thing keeping her from collapsing, she rode the waves of shocking heat. White, hot, rushing through her veins, overcoming her body, her every sense consumed.

She fell against his body, molding against him. Their skin slid and stuck together, fitting like the two puzzle pieces that finally match after hours of searching.

"I love you," he breathed, hot against her skin.

"Love… you…" She panted, still out of breath.

There was a time when any mention of the word would have made her flee--the city, the continent--him. There was a time when she would never have said it back, no matter how she felt. She wouldn't have even have allowed herself to think about such feelings.

But now she did.


	2. Coffee

"Starbucks is not coffee," Clint argued. "It's coffee flavored milkshakes."

Bruce took a guilty sip of his vanilla soy latte (no cream, two sugars). Thor thumped the table.

"Here, here!"

Both the demigod, who had first tried coffee in a New Mexico diner, and Steve, who had grown up in an era long before Starbucks was founded, were on Clint's side of the argument.

Tony, however, wasn't backing down. He liked his caramel macchiato (one cream, one sugar), damn it, and no 21st Century Legolas was going to guilt him into drinking the black sludge that the others--Bruce excepted--seemed to enjoy.

Clint, however, was still extremely frustrated. There was no coffee to be had other than the stupid cappuccinos Tony had bought. He needed his fucking caffeine rush, okay?

He spun on his heel to stalk out and was met by two dark eyes and two pale, lithe hands, holding a proffered cup of decidedly black coffee. He said nothing, but the harsh lines of his face softened as he took the cup from her. As he did so, their fingers met, intertwining for a moment before he brought the cup up to his lips to take a sip.

Natasha was the only person who could make his coffee just the way that he liked it.

* * *

_He woke up, dazed, blinking slowly. The world was full of blurry colors, like splotches of a chalk painting that had gotten rained on. It reminded him of a film, something he'd seen as a child, but the details faded even as he grasped at them. He didn't like to remember his childhood._

" _Barton."_

_They hadn't gotten to a first-name basis yet--even though, in the deep dark corners of his heart where he locked up annoying things like emotion, he did want them to be._

_Slowly, he turned his head. Her face slid into focus, and as it did so, the other pieces fell into place. A bomb. A knife fight. Several fights. Lasting long enough to reach the filthy, anonymous motel room, before collapsing into her arms the minute she opened the door._

_Turning his head hurt his neck, and he winced. Now that they were able to focus, his eyes darted around the room, taking in everything. It was a sniper's habit. He realized that he was propped up on a bed in a hospital room, with Romanov sitting in a chair next to him. In her hands she held a cup of what smelled suspiciously like coffee._

" _Barton?" She said, her voice tinged with a softness he'd rarely heard from her._

_He looked at her again, and she seemed relieved that he recognized her. She held out the cup. "I thought you might like some," she said, her voice low. A kind of embarrassment had crept in there; the great, terrible Black Widow, getting her fellow agent coffee while he lounged in the hospital._

_Wait--how had he gotten there?_

" _You brought me here?" His voice was hoarse and croaky, but at least it worked. "Why not… SHIELD…"_

" _Not enough time," she said curtly. Again, she held out the cup to him. He shook his head slightly, gritting his teeth at the pain. One of the bastards he'd had to fight with had twisted his neck when he'd put him in a headlock._

" _I don't like hospital coffee," he said apologetically. He understood the gesture, and didn't want to hurt her feelings._

" _It's not," she responded. "I brewed it myself. Just the way that you like it."_

_He openly stared at her. Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, sought-after assassin extraordinaire, had taken precious time out of her day to brew her babysitter (there was no denying that Fury had assigned them together for him to keep an eye on her, as he was apparently the only one who could get her to show any form of restraint) his coffee, the way that he enjoyed?_

_He was unnaturally touched._

_He accepted the cup, but found that he couldn't bring it to his mouth. Her hands covered his, helping him bring the cup to his lips and sip at the rich, dark, slightly bitter liquid. The feel of it sliding down his throat was almost as warm and pleasurable as the feeling blooming in his chest._

_Maybe Fury had thought that assigning him to Romanov would be punishment for failing to kill her and insisting on bringing her on to SHIELD, but he didn't see it that way. Not before, and certainly not now. It looked like his act of mercy, and the ones that followed, were beginning to pay off._

_Hey, at least she hadn't set fire to the hospital this time._

* * *

"Thank you," he said, when they were finally alone and away from the likes of spoiled, self-absorbed chatterboxes whose names started with "T" and ended with "Y."

Natasha was perched on the kitchen counter, her lips in an innocent pout. "I really don't see what the big deal is about me knowing how to make coffee for you," she said, mildly irritated and slightly curious.

Clint walked over to her, standing in between her legs. She took advantage of the situation--of course--wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Clint put a hand on either side of her waist.

He shrugged. "That was when I knew," he explained.

"Knew what?"

The soft skin of her neck looked so inviting, almost begging him to pay attention to it, so he began to nuzzle the spot. Natasha pulled him a little closer, those perfect plush lips of hers falling open.

"I knew then that I was right. There was humanity still in you. You could regain what you had lost."

It was as plain as that to him. Natasha could never be "fixed" or "redeemed" and neither could he. Such ideas were for the simple-minded. But she could become someone new. She could become the person that she wanted to be, rather than what others manipulated her into.

"I'm not sure that I understand," she gasped, thrusting her body against his as he bit gently into the skin at her collarbone.

"Simply put," he murmured, licking the wound, "The day you first made me coffee is the day you stopped being Black Widow. It's the day you started to become Nat."

"But only for you," she whispered, threading her fingers through his hair and wrapping her legs tight around him. "Only ever for you."


	3. Bedroom

"Clint?"

Natasha peeked into the bedroom. Her partner was stringing his bow while watching security footage of an assassin taking down a few guards at some foreign business or other.

"Fury give you an assignment?" She asked, entering the room. She had just finished taking a shower and didn't bother with a towel. Clint didn't take his eyes off the screen.

"Yup. Termination. Shouldn't take me more than a couple days."

It was with only a slight chill that she realized this must have been what it was like for him. He would have been sent footage of her, along with a file chock full of information on her training, her family, and her methods. Thankfully, he hadn't gone through with the assignment, choosing instead to try and turn her.

"It better," she said, sauntering closer. Skype talks were nice but could only be done rarely. Generally all contact ceased during a mission. She hated to admit it, but she needed him in her life. He was one of her few constants.

Clint finished stringing his bow, hitting pause on the footage. He turned to look at her, and his jaw dropped. Literally, it popped open.

Natasha allowed him to pin her to the bed, giving a giggle that did not befit a hardened assassin.

That was the last she saw of him for three days. Natasha was forced to once again face the fact that without him, every room seemed too large and empty, like a hollow shell. Everything from their bed to their shower to the community kitchen table was cold without his presence. And while she knew it to be irrational and all in her head, she could have sworn that colors were duller and lights dimmer without him.

Love was for children, but this went beyond love. It was need, a part of her soul; a piece of her that, when absent, sapped a bit of life from her.

While sharing a bedroom had, in fact, not been a huge change in lifestyle, having a room without him was. She avoided the room while he was away, because every patch of silence, every empty space, called to her, reminding her of all the places Clint wasn't.

In fact, now that she thought about it… they had been sharing a room almost constantly, even before they had begun a relationship. Okay, admitted to having a relationship. And consummated it.

Several times.

* * *

_She was wary. She had no reason to trust this man, but she could tell that what he was telling her was the truth. She'd heard of him, of course, just as he had heard of her._

_Hawkeye. He was the silent sniper, the man able to kill at an incredible distance and in a surprising number of ways given his antiquated weapon. Bows and arrows had been around for nearly as long as knives. She preferred getting up close and personal but to each his own._

" _I'm sorry that it's only one room. My employers set me up here, and they didn't expect me to have visitors." His tone was as apologetic as it could be while still maintaining a tone of professional neutrality._

_Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, surveyed the tiny hotel room. It wasn't nearly as high class as she was used to, but she'd also stayed in worse places._

" _I'm taking the bed," she stated. Her voice was calm but made clear there would be no room for argument._

" _Great," he said. "I was going to offer you the bed, but thanks to your attitude I missed out on being a gentleman about it. Now I look like a pussy."_

_It took her five seconds of staring at him to realize he had made a joke._

" _You are making fun of me," she stated. Her voice was suitably lacking an accent, as she had been trained, but her use of English was still slightly formal and stilted at that juncture._

" _I'm trying to lighten the mood." He flopped onto the bed, looking up at her, taking in her stiff posture. "You know, you're the first person I've elected to turn instead of terminate?"_

_She sensed that he was trying to help her relax. She appreciated the gesture, but she was not one for intimacy, no matter how casual._

" _You are on my bed," she stated._

_He stared at her for a beat, and then laughed. Natasha liked his laugh immediately. Black Widow filed that fact away in a dark corner of her mind, locking it up and throwing away the key._

" _You just made a joke!" Hawkeye was still laughing, looking very un-assassin-like. "The Black Widow just made a fucking joke!"_

_Natasha Romanov did not smile, but she had to fight one down for the first time in… well… the first time she could recall with certainty._

_Sharing the room was easy. Casual, professional--there was no fear of crossing boundaries. He was polite and kept his distance, and she did the same. They barely knew each other, and they weren't about to complicate an already delicate situation (a volatile situation, according to the one-eyed man who was apparently Hawkeye's boss and therefore now hers) by having sex. Although, if you got her drunk enough, she just might admit that she thought about it._

_Every mission after that, they just ended up sharing again. It was how things started, where they found their rhythm, and that was the way that it stayed. He took the couch or the floor mattress, refusing to let her have anything other than the bed. They rotated using the bathroom; often ending up with one of them in the shower while the other brushed their teeth or disinfected a wound. He began to give her books to read, and she would stay up all night with the lamp on the nightstand, reading, while he slept like the dead by the hotel door. He never batted an eye at her silk nightgowns, and she never said anything about his too-tight undershirts, having inevitably shrunk in the wash thanks to his terrible skills at laundry._

_Now that they were together, nothing had really changed about their living habits. There was just a sense of fresh air, all tensions--both real and imaginary--gone._

_Of course, now they shared the bed, too._

* * *

Natasha read quietly, her eyes zooming across the page. While she'd been reticent about reading this particular novel, both Clint and Tony had insisted that she read it. And when those two agreed about something, it had to be worthwhile.

She was halfway through  _Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter_  when she heard the familiar footfalls. She knew the sounds of his feet like she knew her own heartbeat. Setting the book on the nightstand, she turned out the light and slid out of bed, slinking silently over to the door.

The second that he opened it she assaulted him, leaping onto him and latching on with all of her might. Her lips found his instinctually, kissing him with a bruising force before moving on to scatter kisses all over his face and neck.

"Miss me?" He chuckled, his voice raspy from lack of sleep, physical exertion and sexual frustration.

"God, yes. Fury should have let me come too--or at least given me a mission to distract me." She slid off of him but began to tear his shirt off, bypassing the buttons entirely. He'd changed into regular clothes, thank goodness. Getting that suit off of him was ridiculously time-consuming.

"Get this fucking thing off," Natasha growled, furiously working on his pants.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you wanted something," Clint joked, sliding his hands down and picking her up, his hands firmly on her ass.

"Clint Barton, if you don't fuck me in the next ten seconds, I am going to…"

He laid her down on the bed and kissed her, rendering her temporarily speechless. "Temporarily" being the key word there.

"This is my bed," she muttered. "I make the rules."

"It's our bed," He shot back, his voice full of nothing but love.

She smiled helplessly. That gentleness, that affection, so strange to have survived in a man who had seen what he'd seen and done what he'd done, was the first thing to endear him to her.

"Ours," she agreed. "Now--shirt, pants, boxers. Off. Now."


	4. Clint

"C'mon, Barton, give me all you've got."

"You really want to look like a Dalmatian tomorrow?"

"Now, now, children…"

" _Clint!_ "

Steve, Thor and Clint stopped their pre-sparring jabs and froze. The blond-haired men stepped away from their teammate cautiously. Natasha was stalking towards them in what could only be described as concentrated fury. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes flashed with a very real danger. This was not your average pissed-off girlfriend. This was one of the world's deadliest assassins, and the only person who could safely call himself her equal was the one she was currently stomping towards with aim to kill.

Without a word to him or either of the bewildered (Steve) and uneasy (Thor) men next to him, Natasha grabbed Clint by the front of his collar and yanked him away, almost dragging the normally stoic and quietly fierce man like he was nothing more than a disobedient puppy.

The nearest storage closet for keeping their training equipment--including Steve's many, many punching bags--was on the other end of the training room. Natasha opened it and shoved Clint inside, closing the door behind them and locking it.

Steve and Thor looked at one another.

"You know, I have some more history books to read…" Steve said.

"And I have to call Jane," Thor added hastily.

They exited the room as quickly as possible.

Natasha pinned him to the opposite wall of the spacious closet, her voice nothing more than a feral growl.

"You… are… a bastard."

Clint put on a neutral face. If he put on an innocent face, he knew that she'd be suspicious, so he settled for neutral and hoped it would be enough. "What are you talking about, Nat?"

"Vibrator underwear," Natasha growled. "Fucking. Vibrating. Underwear. You picked a pair that looked like another pair of mine, replaced it, and you've been using it on me all fucking day!"

Clint slipped a hand into his pocket and pressed one of the buttons on the slim remote he'd kept in his pocket.

Natasha's eyes gleamed for a moment before sliding shut with a moan. She rested her head against the wall, which placed her ear right next to his mouth. This, she found, was a stupid decision. It gave him the ability to whisper right in her ear.

"Why are you so upset, Nat?" He said, his voice low and throaty.

She groaned. He hit another button.

"Clint…" She said, grabbing onto him and allowing him to slide his arms around her waist.

"Is it because I surprised you?" He asked. She panted, clawing at him.

"Damn it, Clint…" She hissed.

He picked her up and turned her around so that she was the one pressed against the wall. He allowed himself to grin now, smiling wolfishly at how deliciously on edge she was.

"Or are you upset because I've been keeping you on edge all day and not letting you come?"

"Fuck… you… Clint…" Natasha spat through gritted teeth.

"Whom were you talking to? I'm not sure I heard that." Normally this would have earned him a broken bone, but right now she was too far gone to deal any real damage.

"Clint!" She gasped. "Please… oh God…"

"No God here, just me."

"Clint…"

* * *

_She crouched low to the ground, peering around the corner. Barton had his back to her, poised by the window, slowly drawing back the bow. He was so focused on his target that he didn't see the man sneaking behind him._

_Natasha withdrew the knife from its holder. From this angle she couldn't nail the guy--she needed him two steps to the left. By the time he reached that spot he'd be too close to her partner for her to get the assailant without risking Barton's life as well._

_She had no choice but to alert her partner and hope that he could dart out of the way and give her a clean shot._

" _Barton!" She hissed._

_He didn't hear her. He wasn't ignoring her--he honestly did not hear her. He was in that killing zone where the world drained away until nothing was left but the pinpoint of the bulls-eye._

" _Clint!"_

_She had never called him by his first name before. He turned, startled, and dodged out of the way as he realized instinctively what needed to be done. Natasha let her knife fly._

_The would-be killer fell to the ground with an unceremonious thump. Clint looked up and met Natasha's eyes._

" _You called me Clint," he said, stupidly._

_She retrieved her weapon from the dead man's back, cleaning it carefully. "Yes, I did." She paused. "You can call me Natasha."_

_She didn't expect him to understand, but when she next looked into his eyes, she saw that he did. Gratefulness flooded her. He knew what a huge step this was for her. This was a step in intimacy that she had never afforded anyone. And while he wasn't sure how far her feelings went (in truth, she wasn't sure herself), he knew now that at the very least, she trusted him with a kind of friendship._

_He swallowed the urge to tell her that he loved how she said his name._

* * *

"Oh God… Oh my….  _fuck_ … Clint…"

"I love how you say my name," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.

"I need…" Natasha could hardly see straight. She both loved and hated him for teasing her this way, leaving her hanging all day with no release. He was the only one she would allow such power or control over her.

And he knew it, damn him.

"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me what you need, Nat."

"You. I need you in me. Shit, please Clint…"

He slipped his pants off and helped her with hers, entering her swiftly and without preamble. He was hard as a rock from watching her tremble in his arms. She keened, tears starting in her eyes at the relief and pleasure.

"That's it, Nat," he whispered. He began to move.

She came embarrassingly quickly, before he did. She shouted his name to the heavens, crying out, almost sobbing. They whispered each other's names in their ears. They had no pet names, no secret words.

"Nat."

"Clint."

Those were the only terms of endearment they needed.


	5. Red

Scarlet. Burgundy. Maroon. Crimson. Ruby. Claret. Garnet. Cranberry.

Red.

It didn't matter what name you gave it--the color was still the same. It might come in different shades, tints, and tones, but in the end, the essence remained unchanged.

Natasha turned slowly, gazing at herself in the mirror. Or, more specifically, what she was wearing. The dress was lovely, of course. It fit her like a smooth glove. There wasn't a wrinkle or bulging part to be found. The cut was teetering on the edge of immodest, with its thigh slit, built-in push up bra, low cut, lack of straps and low back, but it was sophisticated and classy. The material it was made out of was both soft and almost metallic at the same time, shining softly in the light.

It really was a lovely dress.

Natasha continued to contemplate it. There were a few other dresses that she could choose if she didn't want this one.

Still, she continued to stare.

* * *

_First had been the Red Room. Red walls, red furniture, red carpeting… it was almost comical if it hadn't been such a horrible place. It was a place where they picked your mind apart, piece by tiny piece, and then put you back together the way they wanted._

_Oh yes, she knew what it was like to be unmade._

_She'd escaped, gotten out, away from them, but she'd been changed forever. She didn't know which childhood was real and which was false. She'd kept killing because that was what she was good at. That was what kept her alive._

_She hated red._

_Red was torture. Red was blood. Red was everything that she feared and hated._

_Then she got older. She got into a pattern--or as much of a pattern as a constantly traveling, highly paid killer hiding from the law can establish. She learned a lot of things. One of those things was that men liked red. Women liked red too, but especially men, and especially in a certain capacity._

_Slowly, she learned to live with the color. She wore it, got them drooling, did the deed (the murder, not the other part) and departed. She always rid herself of the clothing as soon as possible, tossing it into a dark corner where she didn't have to look at it. But it lost its edge. Instead of a symbol of fear, it was a tool, something she could manipulate just like everything else in life._

_But then, she'd met Clint, and her world, already tilting on the edge, had fallen and crashed into pieces. She'd rebuilt a new one, him at her side, handing her the pieces she couldn't find, waiting patiently as she fit them carefully together. Red faded into the background, a color just like the others, nothing more, nothing less._

_One day, she'd come into spar wearing a tight-fitting red shirt. She'd destroyed all of her clothes in the last mission, from which she had returned that morning. Wound up, she'd wanted to work it out but couldn't exactly do so naked. In a rare display of female solidarity, Agent Hill had offered Natasha some clothes to borrow. Being an inch and a half taller and much thinner in build, the shirt Natasha was sporting was a little tighter than usual, and longer. But at least it covered her._

_Clint's eyes when he saw the shirt… well, she hadn't believed the phrase "bug-eyed" until that moment._

_He quickly went back to his usual hard, blank look, but she quietly filed the fact away for later use. Clint liked her in red._

* * *

She always filed away observations like that just in case she needed to recall them later. She hadn't done it consciously, but she did do it.

Hence, her current dress dilemma.

Natasha huffed, glaring at herself in the mirror. She was Natasha Romanova, the infamous Black Widow. Feared (and rightfully so) all over Europe and parts of Asia. She was a prized agent of SHIELD. She'd helped to defeat an army of freaky building-sized aliens controlled by a delusional demigod. She was not going to be cowed by a fucking color. It wasn't even a sentient being. It was a certain density of light as received by her retinas and processed by her brain. There was absolutely nothing to fear in it. Tonight was a rare night where she was dressing up for herself, not for a mission, and she wanted to look her best.

And, yes, she wanted her partner, romantic and otherwise, to have his jaw hit the floor. She'd always had a weakness for grand entrances.

Drawing upon her reserve of courage, Natasha picked up her clutch purse, slipped into her heels (which would pain her and she'd take off halfway through the date, but no matter), and went down to the main foyer.

Clint was waiting patiently, not pacing or tapping his foot or making any other gesture of annoyance, subconscious or otherwise. He turned to look at her as she reached the bottom of the staircase and approached him.

He did that bug-eyed thing again, but managed to keep his jaw in place with difficulty. He opted for clenching it instead. He had decided that he did far too much jaw-dropping around Nat, and if it got to be a habit he knew it would only be a matter of time before one of the guys noticed it and, well, if that happened… he'd never hear the end of it.

Instead, he tried for suave, charming; the sorts of things women really went for.

"You look…" He tried to clear his throat without making any sound.

Okay, so scrap the sophisticated. He'd settle for just finishing a sentence.

Natasha decided to put him out of his misery and gently kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I know," she said softly.

Clint chanced it. "You want to just skip the date and go upstairs?"

Natasha pretended to consider. "Hmm… attending Tony's latest I'm-so-great award ceremony, or hot, sweaty sex… it's so difficult to choose…"

Clint swooped her up, bridal style, and practically ran up the stairs. Natasha let him, laughing the entire way.

Later that night, lying in bed with Clint's arm draped over her bare stomach, Natasha thought again about red. It was just a color. It was what she made of it. Whether it was a fear, a tool, or a way to tease Clint… it was all up to her.

She turned her head to look at the sleeping man beside her. Maybe, in time, she'd grow to like red.

Especially if it got him  _that_  worked up.

Three o'clock wasn't too early to start Round Ten, was it?

Nah.


	6. Russian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian phrases in this chapter were taken from google translate, so please forgive any errors.

"Mmm… Clint… stop fucking teasing…"

Clint looked up into Natasha's smoldering eyes, pausing in his oral exploration of her stomach. "Don't make me gag you as well." He grinned devilishly.

Natasha pulled experimentally at the restraints. It was a sign of immense trust on both sides that she was tied up like this, one arm at each bedpost. It was a symbol of trust on Natasha's side, obviously, because she was allowing him to tie her up, allowing herself to be at his mercy. Giving herself to him, as she had given herself to no one else. But it was trust for Clint, as well. They both knew that Natasha, with a quick twist and pull maneuver, could be out of those restraints in two seconds flat. And while that was great if, say, crazed ninjas decided that was the perfect moment to attack, it meant that she really wasn't at his mercy. He trusted her to stay, to open herself up to him. He trusted her not to use the escape route.

By no means, however, did this mean Natasha was the patient type.

At the threat of a gag, Natasha smirked. "You wouldn't do that," she said with the same quiet confidence with which she said nearly everything.

This was true. Clint was far too fond of hearing what poured from those luscious lips to ever muffle them.

Crawling up the bed, Clint pressed his mouth to said lips, stroking her tongue with his. His hand snaked down and covered her sex, pressing the heel of his hand on her gently. She moaned into his mouth.

"By the time I'm finished with you, Nat," he whispered, "You'll be screaming so loudly, you'll wish I'd gagged you to stop the others from hearing."

"Do your worst," she whispered, nipping at his bottom lip.

* * *

_Love is for children._

_It was the first and last lesson of her mother country. It was the first thing drummed into her during her years of training, and it was the one principle she retained even as the others fell away. Even after everything, she still held on to it a little._

_It was strange, what parts of your heritage you retained, and the parts you left behind. It was the relationship between man and country, the individual and the collective. The principles of Mother Russia were strict and harsh, drummed into each new generation with the precision of an army drill sergeant. Despite the wars, the increased changes of the world's culture, and the shifting of power, some things remained the same. Tradition's strong hold was neither broken easily, nor in a single generation. It took time._

_Natasha Romanova felt a bond with her country of origin. It was her first language, her mother tongue. There were still some aspects of English that she would never feel completely comfortable with: the relaxation, the quipped words, short vowels and wide, vague sounds. Russian was harsh, it was true, but it rolled off the tongue, each word a tiny ball that curled off your lips and into the air. It was contained, like a fire kept inside a certain perimeter, hinting at power and strength but always kept within its limits. The throaty noises, the closed-throat vowels… those remained with her still._

_She sometimes wondered if that was good or bad. She supposed that it was neither. It was a part of her. She refused to accept the burdens of her country, to shoulder its mistakes and sins. But that also meant she could not share in its glory, its triumphs and successes. She had rid herself of it. She was without country now._

_She still wasn't sure how she felt about that._

_One thing that she was certain about, however, was Clint. He was the only constant in her life. For that, she could never thank him enough. He was like she was, without country, without home, without heritage… by his choice, of course. And if he sometimes made references to American culture or history, or if he used American slang or something of the sort, it was only remnants of what had once been, like the burnt shell of a destroyed house._

_But if there were things that remained, then it was pleasing if they were nice or helpful. For example, there was her tendency to babble in Russian._

_Yes… There was that…_

_But she wasn't Russian. She wasn't anything. Black Widow to many, Agent Romanov to some, and Nat to one. She was her own person. She belonged to nowhere._

_But she did belong to someone… someone who rather did rather like that tendency of babble in Russian._

* * *

"Are you certain?" Thor asked.

"Positive." Tony was doing his determined, almost feverish half-run half-walk down the hallway towards the joined suite Natasha and Clint shared. He'd originally given them separate rooms, but Natasha promptly abandoned hers for Clint's, and within a week it was official.

"Steal my silk ties again, will they?" Tony muttered.

Bruce followed behind, his curiosity at what Tony would do tempering his modesty. Steve brought up the rear, making feeble protestations but ultimately too embarrassed to say much.

"Tony, I'm really not sure that this is the best way to exact your revenge… whatever that is," Bruce said, hurrying to catch up with Thor's long strides and Tony's rushing.

The handheld tape recorder Tony brandished in his hand like a butcher's knife was enough of an answer, but the billionaire still insisted on explaining.

"Blackmail! If they are going to insist on stealing my ties--a gift from my girlfriend, might I add--then they are going to suffer the consequences!"

Bruce bit his tongue to keep himself from saying his thought out loud. Tony was just as big of a diva as Loki sometimes…

Tony bent down and pressed his ear to the door for a minute. Steve planted himself several feet away, leaning against the wall and fixing the others with his patented disapproving look. Thor and Bruce exchanged looks but crouched down next to their teammate. Tony hit record on the tape.

While all four men were unsure that it would be possible to hear anything, that worry (or hope) was quickly dispelled when several distinct sounds began emanating from behind the closed door.

"Боже мой ... что чувствует себя так чертовски хорошо ... Клинт, боже мой ... о ебать ... Дорогой Бог, я люблю тебя!"

"What's that mean?" Thor whispered.

Bruce made a face. "I can guess."

Tony's grin widened. "Ah, I love Russian…"

Thor smacked him. At Tony's wounded look, Thor shrugged. "That was on Pepper's behalf."

There was a scream of pleasure from the other side.

"And the fat lady sings!" Tony whispered. "Time for our grand exit!"

He hit "stop" and took off down the hallway, whistling gleefully. Steve, having reached a decision of some sort, tore after him, shouting things about stopping and morality and boundaries. Thor and Bruce exchanged another look, before Thor shook his head.

"My Jane…"

Bruce held up a hand. He really, really didn't need to hear about Thor's oh-so-perfect and wonderful and immaculate ladylove. "Let's go help Steve."

Thor, thankfully, shut up and nodded.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the thick (but clearly not thick enough) door, Clint carefully undid the ties, massaging each wrist and ankle as the appendage came free. Natasha immediately wrapped herself around him, pulling him up to her and smashing their lips together. They eventually pulled back, smiling infectiously.

Natasha gazed straight into his eyes. "Любовь к детям," she whispered.

_Love is for children._

She kept talking, though, calming any fears that might have arisen. "Вы больше." She reached up and stroked his cheek, her hands impossibly soft. "Ты моя душа."

_You are more than that._

_You are my soul._


	7. Drinking

One beer bottle and one ice-filled glass clinked together in a silent toast. Clint took a sip of the beer--some cheap variety that he wouldn't admit liking to anyone except the red-haired woman sitting across from him--while Natasha downed her vodka in one go, her face screwing up as she swallowed.

Clint watched, unashamed, as her throat moved, the expanse of skin rippling. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her. She smiled.

Natasha reached forward, plucking the beer from her partner's hand. She tipped it, allowing a few drips to fall onto her neck and slide down onto her chest, the tiny amber beads just a shade or two darker than her skin.

Most people would have accompanied such a blatant seduction act with a word or two of innuendo, but Natasha gave none. Neither of them was particularly good with words. Clint leaned forward, his tongue darting out, taking the drops off her skin with expertise. One of the beads had worked its way so far south that it had disappeared into the valley between her breasts.

Tony paused, his hand hovering over the kitchen doorknob. Judging by the sounds coming from the other side of the door, he was going to have to be a fucking "team player" again and call a fucking meeting about this.

* * *

_She eyed the bottle with suspicion. Of course she did. He'd have been a little disappointed if she hadn't._

" _It's just vodka," he insisted. "I promise." When she still didn't take the bottle, he placed it on the table, along with a small glass, and a bucket filled with ice from the ice machine down the hall._

_Black Widow continued to eye him, not even blinking in her determination to keep him firmly in her sights. He didn't blink either, firmly meeting her gaze. A full minute passed._

_Slowly, with her eyes still fixed on his, she took the bottle and poured herself a glass. The glass was raised, the drink consumed, and then the empty glass was slammed back onto the table with a sound that was both dull and resounding._

_After another tense moment, he grinned._

" _Did you really think I was going to poison you?" He asked._

_Widow smiled predatorily. "I'm the spider here. But I did think that you might shoot me while I was absorbed in the drink."_

_He continued to smile, her dark joke about her given title encouraging him. He didn't say anything--he wasn't that stupid. But the fact that she'd made a joke, or even spoken to him civilly, was a step in the right direction._

_Honestly, he wasn't sure what he wanted from her… what he expected to accomplish with this. They'd just completed their first mission, and it had gone well. Far better than he'd hoped. Not that he'd hoped for much. He would have considered getting out without her knifing him in the back a win, but they'd pulled it off without a hitch._

_Looked like Fury wouldn't have to fire him after all._

* * *

"Remember the pub in Dartmoor?"

"Best bar fight ever. It was even better than the one in New Mexico… what was the bar called?"

"The Rattle, I believe it was. After the snake."

Clint chuckled. "You were the one who started that fight."

Natasha shrugged. "I was still learning a few words. It wasn't my fault that 'rattle' is also the name of a baby toy."

Clint laughed even harder, and then kissed her, his drunken state making it a bit sloppy. Natasha didn't seem to mind, though. On the contrary, she yanked him by the shoulders, pushing him off the empty-glass-and-bottle-covered table, and proceeded to alternately pull and push him out of the trashed kitchen, up two flights of stairs, and to their bedroom.

Tony, busy preparing his speech on proper behavior, was blindsided by the flurry of activity and by the time he'd blinked, to two of them had gone, leaving only their mess behind.

"Damn it," he muttered, gazing around. He then shrugged. Steve was always the first one up in the morning and he would undoubtedly clean it up. One of the uses of having at team member who was both a military man and naturally neat. He simply couldn't stand for mess.

Seeing a bottle of wine that they hadn't managed to polish off, Tony snagged it and headed back to his own room.


	8. Sparring

Jab, hit, roundhouse, jump, kick, jab, jab, jab, grunt, side swipe, hammer, nerve pinch, ankle twist, punch, throat jab, pincer grip, flying kick, hip twist, ankle hook, flip and…

"Oomph!" Natasha landed on her back, the wind knocked out of her. Clint had fallen with her--it was part of the move--but he landed on top of her, one large hand wrapped around each wrist, pinning her to the floor.

"You are far too fond of this move," she stated.

He raised his eyebrows. "Weren't  _you_  the one pinning  _me_  like this yesterday morning?" He asked.

Natasha hummed as she pretended to think about it, slowly rubbing her lower body up and down. Clint's eyes darkened, his pupils dilating. When Natasha arched her hips slightly, her lips parting, the black centers widened alarmingly.

Steve entered the training room, took one look at the figures sprawled on the sparring mat, and turned right around again. Bruce, fresh from the shower, stared at his teammate's face, which was a rather attractive shade of maroon.

"Don't go in there," Steve muttered curtly.

Bruce just shrugged to himself and continued walking.

:::::::::::::::::::::::

_Jab, hit, roundhouse, jump, kick, jab, jab, jab, grunt, side swipe, hammer, nerve pinch, ankle twist, punch, throat jab, pincer grip, flying kick, hip twist, ankle hook…_

_He was naturally stronger--there was no ignoring that--but she was faster and, admittedly, more agile. They played off of each other's strengths and weaknesses, making them evenly matched._

_It took him over an hour and a half to pin her. Just when he thought he had her, she'd slip away, nailing him in a weak spot or hitting a pressure point. But finally, finally he had her on the mat, her wrists between his strong hands, unable to escape no matter how much she struggled and spat. She reminded him of a hissing cat, and he had to fight down a smile at the thought._

" _Pinned ya," he said, allowing a trace of smugness to enter his voice._

" _Let me go," she muttered darkly, disliking the vulnerable position--and the fact that he'd won._

" _No, no, I kind of like this. I feel rather accomplished right now," he said, savoring the moment._

_She arched her back to try and get more wiggle room, and in the process ground her hips against his. It was only for a moment, but that was all it took. A sexy, gorgeous woman underneath him, her hands pinned…_

_Clint swallowed. If she even suspected that he entertained such a thought, she'd behead him before he could say 'sorry.'_

_Fortunately, she noticed his momentary distraction and, instead of investigating the cause, took advantage of it, flipping them so that he was the one pinned. She lowered herself so that their faces were only an inch or so apart. Clint tried very, very hard to think of anything other than the heat rolling off her body, the slick, sweaty palms of her hands pressing into his wrists, her pelvis pressed intimately against his…_

" _No one will know that you pinned me. Understand?" She asked, her voice containing too much camaraderie to be deadly but still worth heeding. Barton was the only one who would spar with her once she'd wiped the floor with the asses of everyone else, and while it was both amusing and annoying that they refused to fight her after that, she still had a reputation to uphold. If any of the other agents discovered how easily Barton could pin her… well._

_He nodded, and she slipped off of him. He stood quickly and turned away, striding towards the water bottle he'd left in the corner. He silently prayed that she wouldn't notice the fact that he was half-hard already. He was so engrossed in calming himself down and hydrating that he didn't see her eyes flick over to him and take in his… current condition._

_Natasha licked her lips subconsciously. She still wasn't sure if she fully trusted Barton, especially as he'd proven to actually be her equal at hand-to-hand combat. She was glad they were on the same side, as she honestly wasn't sure if she could beat him if he, say, got pissed at her or defected to the enemy or something. She definitely wasn't going to ruin their shaky, fragile relationship by jumping into bed with him. Their partnership was like a creation of blown glass, strange and liable to break at any moment but beautiful, beautiful in a way that she didn't understand._

_Not to mention that she'd never been in bed with a man for the pure enjoyment of it. She could count the men she'd slept with on one hand, and that had only been for assignments. It had been because she'd had to. But now, looking at Barton, feeling him above her, pinning her…_

_Shaking herself, Natasha moved on to other things. She wondered if he was any good at knife throwing._

* * *

Natasha flipped them so that she was on top, slowly grinding down on him. Clint swallowed, his eyes closing.

"Nat…" He managed to croak, his voice strangled. She was above him, the harsh lighting from the training room revealing her in all of her glory, framing her in a halo of light like a kind of lustful angel.

The new angle hit her in just the right spot, sending moans into the still, hot air. Clint clenched his teeth, trying hard to regain some kind of control. She'd been teasing him like this for the past… how many minutes? He couldn't take it anymore.

Gripping her hips with his hands, he held her in place and thrust up into her. Natasha cried out, her eyes widening. Her body clenched him as her orgasm raced through her, making her boneless. Knowing that he wasn't finished, she fought off her body's instincts. She bent down and kissed him, her tongue stroking his in a sinful imitation of what his dick was doing to her.

One… two… three…

Clint broke off the kiss as he emptied himself, his body becoming rigid and stiff. Natasha allowed herself to collapse on top of him, her body giving into the impulse to become boneless.

When Clint regained the ability to think coherently and some measure of control over his body, he sat up, wrapping his arms around his lover. She made a tiny noise of contentment and curled up in his lap like a cat, nuzzling behind his ear.

"Not bad," she murmured.

He pulled back and stared at her. "I'd say that was better than 'not bad', Nat."

Natasha laughed. "I meant the fight, Clint. You're lucky I was horny or it would've taken you twice as long to nail me."

He arched an eyebrow at the innuendo, but didn't stop the grin from stealing over his features. "I guess I'll just have to make it harder next time."


	9. Target Practice

"It's not natural, Natasha," Tony said. His voice was barely tinged with his usual flippancy.

"I agree." Steve nodded. "You could be seriously injured."

"For fuck's sake!" Natasha threw her hands up into the air in exasperation. She could not  _believe_  that Mr. Fucking Perfect and Mr. Thinks He's Perfect were actually putting aside their bickering to gang up on her… and about this, of all fucking things!

"It's not like he's shooting me with a gun! The tips aren't sharp, they're coated with a strong adhesive," she explained impatiently.

"He's basically hunting you," Steve argued.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Excellent observation there, Captain."

"I believe it to be a perfectly legitimate form of training," Thor put in. "In the heat of battle, we will not be going up against opponents who care anything about 'fair' or 'sportsmanship'. We must train for the worst."

"Thank you!" Natasha said. Her words were directed at the demigod but she continued to glare at Tony and Steve. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a training session to go to."

"More like target practice," Tony muttered.

Natasha flipped him the bird as she stalked away.

* * *

" _You want me to what?" Clint stared at her as if he wasn't entirely sure she was altogether sane. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered if his new partner was a little unhinged. Sure, she'd proven herself to be trustworthy, quickly earning herself the right to be his full-fledged partner rather than the attack dog on a leash ("Asset and Handler" was what Fury had called it), but she still made the craziest decisions on missions. Luckily, they'd always paid off._

_But this…_

_Natasha looked at him calmly, the way a parent would a child who was having a tantrum over eating vegetables. "I think that it would be an excellent way to hone our skills. It would help you with your accuracy, of course, but for me with my dodging and stealth as well. You've said plenty of times that I need to work on that."_

_Oh yes, he had. Natasha's routine of getting herself captured and then killing everyone halfway through the interrogation session… wait… what?_

" _It would help me with my accuracy?" Clint was incredulous. "Are you trying to tell me something?"_

_She stared at him blankly, having long since learned that it was best to wait it out and allow him to reach his own conclusions on things. If she fought him, he would fight back, and with an infinite amount of sniper's patience. But if she stayed quiet, he would work things out on his own._

" _Fine," he said eventually. "But just this once."_

_The SHIELD facility they were currently located in happened to be in the Appalachian Mountains, ensuring that the surrounding environment was more than capable of meeting their needs. Craggy, rocky slopes, dark, ancient forests and small, meandering rivers that snaked through the cold ground all joined together to create the perfect hunting grounds._

_Clint set up his weapons while Natasha warmed up, doing the splits with her ankles resting on two tree branches. Once his arrows were in place, he looked up at her. Natasha came out of her split and hopped to the ground._

" _Are you ready?" He asked._

_She nodded._

" _Are you sure about this?" He asked, giving her one last chance to change her mind._

_Natasha grinned, tight-lipped and sly._

" _What's the matter, Barton?" She asked. "Afraid you can't catch me?"_

_With that, she took off into the forest, making little sound for someone running so quickly. He grinned, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. When he opened them, she was nowhere in sight._

_He drew an arrow from his quiver and notched it in his bow. Piercing eyes searching everywhere, he began to hunt._

* * *

Clint spun around, arrow pointed and bow drawn back, ready to fire. There was no one there.

They were in the sewers of Upper Manhattan today, as there were no forests or other natural areas handy. They had considered Central Park, but they'd already done that about a week ago and nearly had a bad run-in with some police who, understandably, misunderstood what was going on.

Heart racing, Clint went back to stalking through the filthy water. Natasha was, technically, the prey in this little game, but she could turn the tables easily. Some days she would be coy, hiding and running and generally staying as far away from him as possible. The goal on those days was to find her and get close to her. Other times she was playful, teasing him, letting him get close or nearly hit her, but then skipping (yes, skipping) away unscathed, leaving him to seethe.

And some days, like this one, she was aggressive. She'd circle around, or wait in a certain spot, and then begin to stalk him. She'd pounce when he least expected it, or wait for him to raise an arrow at her and then launch herself at him. Those times always ended up with them sparring viciously, doing their damndest to take the other one down.

Of course, she just had to decide to pounce on him when they were knee-deep in filthy water. Clint knew that they were both going to need showers when they got back.

Hmm… showers…

He allowed himself a feral grin at the thought of Natasha in their big, spacious shower. His pants suddenly felt a bit tight. One huge upside to these 'hunting sessions' was that now they were in a relationship, Nat had begun to give him little rewards for his performance. If he caught her quickly, or beat her in a fight, or hit her with an arrow in a manner that was particularly difficult or skilled, she would reward him. The rewards ranged from letting him take her out to dinner (she was uncomfortable with him spoiling her), to modeling a La Perla negligee for him, to giving him a blowjob. It didn't matter what it was--she chose the reward, and he accepted it. They were never announced--he had to figure out what it was. And even if it was as simple as letting him hold her hand in front of their teammates, he always got the warmest glow inside, like a fire blossom had suddenly taken root in his stomach.

His sixth sense--that which is given to all humans but had been honed through years of training and hardship--began to sound an alarm in the back of his brain. He whirled around but saw nothing. Then the truth hit him, and he pointed his arrow towards the pipe-covered ceiling.

Natasha let go of the pipe she'd been gripping and leaped onto him. He loosed his arrow, nailing her right at her heart, but she landed on him all the same. Once you engage gravity, you can't exactly stop it. They sprawled in the dank, stinky water and came up spluttering. Natasha plucked the arrow from her chest. It was covered by a suction cup, which in turn was covered by a sticky organic substance to prevent the arrows from falling off. The substance also left a vaguely glowing white residue. This prevented Natasha from taking off the arrows and claiming that he had missed her. She'd tried that, once. He'd said it was cheating. She'd said that he shouldn't have left her room to cheat. She was forever bending the rules.

"I wondered if you would realize where I was," she said, grinning. Her smile showed her teeth now.

"I'll admit, you had me going for a bit," he confessed, his wolfish grin matching hers.

She crawled through the dark brown water and kissed him softly on the lips. He brought his hands up to wrap around her, drawing her against him. They both ignored the lukewarm filled-with-god-knew-what water they were still sitting in.

"Tony and Steve gave me grief again today."

He wrapped his arms around her a little more tightly. "You explained this all to them, right?"

"Kind of." She shrugged. "One thing I didn't tell them," she said, leaning in to plant her mouth on his ear, "Was that you are very, very sexy when you're hunting."

He growled. "C'mon, Nat, let's go and get cleaned up."

She pulled back, arching her eyebrow at him. She knew exactly what he was thinking. "I suppose it's only fair to let the hunter claim his prize."

He swallowed hard. "Devil woman."

Natasha leapt to her feet in a motion that was so fluid it was almost poetic. "Race you back."

"You're on."


	10. Christmas

_First Christmas_

She stood nervously, twiddling the tiny package around in her hands held behind her back. Barton was digging through the fridge, his head buried in the icebox with his back to her. She idly wondered if he'd found his sandwich and soup yet. She'd eaten half of the soup and taken a lipstick-smeared bite of the sandwich about two hours ago.

He must have found it, because he made a sound that might have been a chuckle. "Romanov," he muttered. He stood and turned around. "Any particular reason you're standing there, agent?"

Natasha strode forward and thrust the gift into his hands. Afraid that her nervousness would show, she strode out of the room as quickly as possible while still maintaining her dignity.

Clint gazed down at the package in his hands. It was small and fit into the palm of his hand. The oddest thing about it was that it was covered in bright red snowman-dotted wrapping paper and a green ribbon.

Clint looked at the date on his watch. It was the 25th.

Romanov hadn't… she hadn't just…

He tore into the paper and opened the small gift box. Inside was nestled a tiny bottle filled with a clear substance. The label on the bottle was some unpronounceable scientific name. There was also a tiny note, scrawled in neat, flowing script.

_This is for your arrows. It's a deadly poison._

Romanoff didn't ever use poison. She preferred knives or hand-to-hand combat. This was obviously rare, as Clint had never heard of it. That meant that it must have taken her a good amount of effort to retrieve it.

Grinning, Clint pocketed the bottle, whistling as he headed back to his quarters. He pulled out the box from under his bed. The wrapping was silver with a gold ribbon. He'd been unable to resist buying it but he'd hesitated to give it to her. Now that he knew he wouldn't be crossing any boundaries, he could hardly wait to present it to her.

He found her executing some flips on the high bars. Her landing would have made any Olympic gymnast's cheeks green. She turned when she saw him, her eyes softening. It was the closest thing to a smile that he--or anyone--had ever received.

"Thanks for the gift."

Natasha nodded. "It's traditional to exchange gifts with associates." She carefully avoided suggesting that she cared.

Clint handed her his gift. She clearly wasn't expecting it, but schooled her face into an appropriately blank expression.

Unlike Natasha, Clint waited and watched while she unwrapped his present. Her eyes lit up upon seeing the contents.

Two missions ago they'd been sent to South America, and while scouting out a location had noticed a local shop. As their cover had been a couple on their honeymoon, they'd done various touristy things, and visiting the local shop had fit the bill. Among the many items had been some souvenir obsidian blades. Natasha had been fascinated to learn that obsidian was a kind of stone, and that the ancient Aztecs had used them as weapons. Clint had made a few inquiries and discovered someone that made genuine obsidian knives--the real, deadly deal. He'd bought one, fitted it into a custom-made handle, and kept it wrapped up and in his room for a good few months now, unsure of when--or if--to present it to her.

Judging by the look on her face, he'd gotten a good present. When she used the knife to kill their mark on their next mission, he was absolutely certain of it.

* * *

 

_Second Christmas_

"C'mon, Romanov, just open it."

Natasha glared at him, but tore open the crinkly wrapping paper with uncharacteristic zeal. She held up the necklace, puzzled. It was far simpler than a lot of the jewelry she'd worn, nothing more than a silver chain from which hung a silver-fitted teardrop emerald.

"It's actually a scrambler."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow at Clint--a trait she'd learned from him.

"I know that… you don't like the earpiece. You don't want someone breathing down your neck. So, if you're ever in a situation where you really don't want Coulson listening in…"

Clint leaned forward and pressed the emerald up into the silver fitting. "You just press this in. To undo it, just push it back out again. It has to do with magnets, or something."

Natasha nodded, her eyes shining appreciatively. Without a word, she pulled her present out from behind her back and handed it to him. Unlike Natasha, Clint did not spend the next few minutes examining the package to figure out what it was. He tore it open first thing.

He grinned at the watch. "Nice," he said, picking it up. "I'm assuming it's not exactly standard?"

She shook her head, her long red hair swishing. "It's a heart rate monitor." She grinned at his confused look. "It's for me."

He understood in a flash, but she lined it out for him anyway. "I know that you hate when I go off grid, when I don't let you know if I'm okay. Now you'll always know my physical condition, even when I have to… improvise."

As they raised their glasses of eggnog (okay, so it was ninety percent alcohol with a dash of eggnog…), Clint decided that it was the best Christmas he'd ever had. Especially considering their current location.

Yes, they technically should have left the château the minute they'd finished 'dispatching' the mark, but hey, the guy wasn't using it anymore and it was Christmas. They'd report to Fury in the morning.

* * *

 

_Third Christmas_

"Clint, turn that shit off before I beat you to death with the radio!"

"What's the matter, Nat? Don't like the Muppets?"

She glared at him. "If I have to listen to Miss Hoggy do the 'five golden rings' one more time…"

"It's Miss Piggy, but okay." He strode over to the radio and turned off the CD player that was giving her so much grief.

"I don't see why you can like that stuff, anyway. It has no class."

He snorted. Before Nat, he never would have believed in an assassin with class, but after suffering through three operas, several dissertations on etiquette, countless dresses that cost more than his salary for a year, caviar, premium vodka and one recitation of the noble families of Europe (which, in Nat's defense, was for a dare), he had to accept the fact that Natasha Romanov was an assassin with an overabundance of class.

"Look, in the US, those guys are cultural icons. Every Christmas as a carnie, we'd listen to John Denver and the Muppets. It'd play on repeat over the sound system as we set up, and we'd sing the songs together while crammed in the wagons to travel," he explained, striding over and plopping himself down next to her on the bed.

"So…" He said, slowly. "They're really sending you to Japan?"

Nat nodded. It would be her first mission for SHIELD alone, working without Clint or any other partner. He was glad--far too glad--that they weren't replacing him with someone else, and he'd known it was inevitable, but he already missed her.

"I ship out tomorrow," she explained, her voice low. "0500 hours. I should be in Tokyo within two hours."

"Well then, you'll need this." He handed her the bag. She noted the La Perla logo but said nothing, her eyes widening as she pulled out the lingerie. She then favored him with a suspicious eyebrow-raise.

He shrugged. "Your cover is that you're a model, right? I'm sure they'll let you wear this. Now it'll be, you know… it will be like I'm with you on the mission. In a weird, awkward sort of way."

She chuckled, eying the deep blue panties and bra appreciatively. "I'll be sure to send pictures."

Setting aside the clothing, Nat bounded off the bed and began to rummage in her closet (they were currently in her room at the base). She emerged with a package held triumphantly in her hand and plopped it into his lap with glee. Clint unwrapped it cautiously, a little worried by her jubilant manner. She hadn't rigged an exploding package as a joke gift, had she?

Well, the present was explosive, but in a different way. Five custom-made exploding arrow tips lay nestled inside their velvet-lined box.

"I know that you couldn't get clearance from Coulson, so I got them made for you by a… friend of mine."

Clint arched an eyebrow. Nat shrugged. "Well, actually, it was a friend of a friend. You know that billionaire guy, the head of Stark Industries? Makes all of those weapons? I know a guy who knows one of the technicians there. He took care of it."

He examined the tips carefully. "I'll save 'em for a special occasion." He winked at her, and then set the box carefully on the bed. "Merry Christmas, Nat."

They hugged. "Merry Christmas, Clint," she replied, smiling.

* * *

 

_Fourth Christmas_

"Five gooooold rings! Ba dum bum bum!" Tony sang drunkenly in the style of Miss Piggy.

Natasha rolled her eyes. Steve shot out an arm to keep the very tipsy billionaire-genius-playboy-philanthropist from toppling into the eight-foot-tall Christmas tree that the super soldier had spent half the day decorating. It turned out that Christmas had always been a loving, family affair for the WWII vet--a veritable Normal Rockwell setup--and he had taken it upon himself to decorate every inch of the tower the Avengers called home. Pepper had jumped in enthusiastically, enlisting an alternately amused and bewildered Thor ("What, Lady Pepper, is the significance of all these dead plants?"), to do some of the heavy lifting.

The demigod was currently downing his third glass of eggnog, which caused Dr. Jane Foster to gently extricate the cup from his hand and set it out of his reach. "I think that's the last one for you," she muttered.

Natasha hadn't been sure what to expect when she'd first met Jane. The girlfriend of someone like Thor had to be made of something stronger than steel just to deal with the guy, but from the way her teammate had talked about the astrophysicist, you'd have thought she was made of china and descended from Heaven. It was a relief to discover that Jane Foster was merely a jeans-and-t-shirt version of Pepper: sweet, thoughtful, sharp-tongued, and more than capable of handling her larger-than-life significant other.

Speaking of Pepper, the woman (whom Natasha had grown rather close to while working undercover as Natalie Rushman) was now steering Tony into a plush chair while simultaneously kicking off her four-inch heels, snagging herself a glass of wine, and removing all other forms of alcohol from Tony's immediate vicinity. Although Clint would never understand it, in Natasha's mind, Pepper Potts was the greatest superhero ever.

Bruce sat in another chair, nursing his eggnog, cheerful but quiet. They had all been in for a shock when he'd announced that his former girlfriend, with whom he'd lost touch after vanishing for the far corners of the earth, was coming to visit and would arrive the next day. Natasha wondered what this mystery woman would be like.

Steve was carefully adjusting an ornament on the tree. He stepped back, scrutinized it, nodded, and then sat down.

"Perfectly symmetrical now, Rogers?"

Clint strode into the room, his wolfish, smarmy grin firmly fixed on his face. Steve gave him his classic 'slightly-arched-eyebrow-eagle-eye' look, which served as his universal annoyed/intrigued/skeptical/you've-got-to-be-kidding-me face.

Ignoring him in favor of accosting Natasha, Clint leaned over the back of her chair and breathed in her ear.

"If you're ready to ditch the party, there's something I want you to see."

Without a moment of hesitation, she rose and followed him.

It is nearly impossible to entirely drown out the sounds of a big city--especially New York City --but the immense height of the building did a fair job of it. The rooftop was silent, and only by sitting near the edge could one make out the muffled sounds of car engines, horns, shouting people, street music and all the rest. Laid out on the cement were a blanket and several plates of food. Natasha didn't even have to take a close look to know that it would be a mix of her and his favorites. She turned to find Clint brandishing a bottle of champagne.

"What, no vodka?" She asked. She trusted him to pick out her vodka at this point, but never her wine. The man just could not grasp the concept of a 'good year.'

"Champagne is the traditional beverage of celebration," he admonished. Natasha arched her eyebrow but accepted the bottle. They didn't bother with glasses but took turns drinking from the bottle, passing it back and forth as they ate.

She didn't know how long they'd been up there, but it was enough time for them to down half the bottle and polish off a majority of the food, when he leaned forward, practically straddling her, and kissed her. She melted into it, removing her heels and wrapping one arm around him (she needed the other to stay upright).

Clint's eyes were as gray as always, softly peering at her. "Merry Christmas, Nat," he whispered.

"Merry Christmas." She smiled. Last year it had ended with a hug and a promise to call on her mission.

That year it ended with sex and a promise to help him blackmail Tony.

Hey… 'Tis always the season for minor exploitation among friends.


	11. Lingerie

Clint held up the outfit--if it could be called that. He grinned. "I can't believe that you kept the stuff."

Natasha shrugged, continuing to rifle through her closet. "They gave it to me. It was free. Who was I to turn down a million dollars in lingerie?"

"Still…" Clint said, discarding the lace teddy he'd been holding in favor or examining a skimpy black negligee. "How come I never get to go on missions like that?"

"Yeah, you'd look ravishing in a bra." Nat snorted, still searching through the haphazard piles of clothing.

"You know what I mean."

With a muffled cry of triumph, Natasha emerged from the closet, brandishing the panties and bra. "Found them!"

Clint dropped what he was holding. "You seriously still have it?"

She shrugged. "It was from you."  _Duh_ , she didn't need to add.

Clint felt a rush of pride that she'd kept his ridiculous little Christmas present from forever ago. He'd been stepping over a very thin line in buying her the lingerie, and he knew that it was from jealousy and possessiveness and the fact that she was going on her first mission without him, but he'd played it off as a 'good luck' present.

"So, Agent Barton…" Natasha said, her voice dropping an octave. "Want to see how it looks on me?"

* * *

" _That's it, Nadya! Beautiful, darling! Just like that!"_

_The words of the photographer were routine, a recitation that was to be repeated to every girl that took up space in front of his camera lens. The redhead pretending to be Nadya Rasputin--a poor farm girl pulled out of obscurity to become a model in Tokyo--pouted and smiled appropriately._

_Nobody noticed the fit young man helping to work the computers in the back of the room. Perhaps the person standing next to him thought it strange that his eyes seemed to change color from gray to green to dark almost-black, and maybe one of the other models saw him and hoped he was there to do a couple's shoot later on. But once that moment's observation had been made, he glided back out of their thoughts, like a puff of smoke or a dream._

_Or an accomplished spy, doing his damndest to stay unnoticed._

_Just as nobody noticed the man, nobody noticed that the supposedly naïve Siberian peasant-turned-model was carefully scrutinizing the various men in the room. One of them was involved in something much darker than recruiting models. One of them was helping to sell something more than just a picture. One of them was forcing these girls to sell more than clothing._

_SHIELD Agent Romanov was going to find which one of them it was. And she was going to do some nasty things to them._

_It was because she was keeping an eye on the bigwigs, the men in charge, that she did not notice the very familiar man in the back. He never went near her, never drew her attention, and so she spent the entire day in the same room as her best friend and never knew it._

_Clint considered telling her beforehand but decided against it. He was going against protocol, against the orders of the handler that he trusted and genuinely liked, and even going against what Nat herself would want. But he just couldn't let her go alone. He trusted Nat, but he didn't trust what she was up against. And he had to admit, at least to himself, that he cared too much about her to let her risk her life without a safety net._

_He watched her work her magic. He watched her get in, get her man, and get out. He watched her work the way he had the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. Once again, he was disobeying orders--only this time, he knew that she wasn't a threat. She was more than an enigma, a woman whose soul matched his. She was his partner, his best friend. She was indispensable to his happiness._

_He had to leave a day early in order to get back to D.C. before she did, but he was there to greet her when she landed. When he caught sight of her, he slipped off the glasses and smiled, tight-lipped. She grinned and sauntered towards him, her arms laden down with bags._

" _How'd your trip go… baby?" He added, in case anyone was watching them._

_Nat set the bags on the ground, unzipped them, and pulled out the various designer-label bags. "I went lingerie shopping," she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder._

_As she sauntered away, he couldn't resist calling after her, "If you charged that to my card, you have to model it for me."_

* * *

"I think I should keep secrets from you more often," Clint said huskily, drawing his fingers up her spine.

Natasha hummed. "Makeup sex and lingerie show aside, if you ever follow me on a solo mission and neglect to mention it for a year and a half, I will gouge your eyes out with your own arrows."

"That's it?" He joked.

"Well," Nat shrugged, settling deeper into his embrace, "There are plenty of other things I could do, but I'm too fond of sex with you to actually follow through with them."

"I love you too, Nat," he whispered.


	12. Hair

"Miss Robinson! So good to see you again, darling! How are you?" The simpering of one Kiki DeLancy was genuine. Few hairstylists, even ones as high-end as Kiki, got to work with hair like Natasha's. It was a brilliant red, it was thick and luxurious, and it had this wonderful tendency to turn into ringlets. It even obeyed the curling iron and other beauty weapons in the stylist's arsenal on the first try.

Miss DeLancy had no way of knowing that the brilliant red was thanks to some minor genetic modifications undergone in the Red Room (not standard, but granted to elaborate on her natural hair color). She also had no way of knowing that Miss Nancy Robinson was not her favorite client's real name. But Kiki DeLancy was a hairstylist, and they have a special knack for getting information from their clients. And so it was with complete accuracy that Kiki asked the question…

"And how is Carl? Has he popped the question yet?"

Okay, so maybe not complete accuracy. The boyfriend-lover-partner-best friend-Avenger's team member of Natasha Romanov was not named "Carl." But still, the fact that Kiki had gotten the rest of the information out of Natasha was remarkable. Someone give that woman a medal.

"Not yet," Natasha laughed as she sat down in the chair. "What makes you think that he will?"

"Honey, he decks you out in stuff like that," Kiki indicated Natasha's dress, jewelry, shoes and purse, all carefully selected to portray the silver-spoon socialite she was pretending to be. "And it's been a year. If I don't see some ice on that finger soon, I am going to have a serious talk with that man."

"No need, Kiki," Natasha assured the young woman. She eyed her stylist critically in the mirror. Kiki was a true product of the American melting pot. Her mother was a half Hawaiian, half Mexican, and her father was half Caucasian, half African-American. This made Kiki an exotic beauty, but assured that while her looks made her stand out, her upbringing made her fit in wherever she went.

"So, are we going to just freshen up what I gave you a month ago, or are we going to prepare it to grow out?" Kiki asked, fingering Natasha's wet locks and looking at the girl through the mirror.

Natasha thought for a moment.

* * *

_She carefully fingered her hair in the mirror. She'd just gotten it cut this morning, and she had to keep reminding herself that a good few inches of hair were no longer there. She hadn't had it this short since a couple of months after she'd joined SHIELD. The handlers of the Red Room had never let her cut her hair. She'd seen it as an act of defiance, another way to break free of their hold on her._

_Clint had liked it. He'd liked it a lot more than he would admit. She'd let it grow back, but even though she knew he liked that, too, she wanted it short again. It kept it out of her way, but still left a good handful._

_Natasha allowed herself a moment to drift into thoughts that she shouldn't be having. Thoughts of a hand, full of her hair, using it to tip her head back and ravage her lips, her throat, lower…_

_She swallowed those thoughts down. They were dangerous. They would get her and Clint killed if she acted on them. There were extremely strict fraternization policies within SHIELD. Acting on her desires would result in possible expulsion and even if it didn't, they would still be at risk. All it would take would be one slip, and their enemies would know and exploit it._

_Still…_

_They didn't get as much time together anymore. He'd departed for New Mexico about a week ago, and she'd flown to Kiev yesterday. It felt like her heart was gone from her body, beating somewhere far away in a desert she'd never seen._

_But then the sounds of violins and idle chatter drifted through the door, and Natasha remembered. It was show time._

_Tucking her hair behind her ear, she grabbed her clutch purse and exited the bathroom. She'd see Clint in a few days, and until then, she would just picture his face when he saw her hair._

_But then…_

" _Barton's been compromised," Coulson told her._

_Phil and Natasha had not gotten on well at first, but even back in the days when they'd circled each other like predators, they had shared a bond in Clint. Even now that they had a camaraderie of their own, everyone knew that Barton was Phil's favorite agent, just as everyone knew that nobody partnered with Barton except for Natasha unless you wanted your ribcage tickled with a knife. As Coulson said those words, Natasha knew that he knew what it meant to her, just as she knew what it meant to him._

" _I'm on my way."_

_On the ride to the Helicarrier, she fingered her hair and tried to tell herself that it wasn't the end of the world. But when she stepped out to meet Phil, Banner in tow, it was all she could do not to abandon years of training and collapse into the senior agent's arms, crying._

" _Excellent job, Romanov," Coulson said, indicating Banner._

_After introductions were made and Banner stumbled off to have a look around, Phil appraised his third-favorite agent. Stark, for all his annoyances, made the cut for second place._

" _If you need a moment alone…" He said softly._

_Natasha blurted it out quietly, without thinking. "He didn't get to see my new haircut."_

_And for some insane reason, Coulson understood._

" _He'll come back to us, Natasha. If anyone can get him back, it's you."_

_It was the only time he ever said her first name._

* * *

"Just freshen it up," she told Kiki. "I'd like to keep it short for a bit longer."

The woman went straight to work, chatting about her life, the various clients, and asking Natasha questions about herself. Skilled at interrogations, Natasha managed to divulge the information that Kiki wanted to hear without revealing anything compromising.

When she was finished, Natasha thanked her, making sure to leave a generous tip. She collected her purse and made her way down the street, up two blocks, and through a small park to the church.

She hadn't known that Phil was a native New Yorker, although she had known he'd spent his summers in Cape Cod with his many cousins on his mother's side. She'd had no idea that he was Catholic, and she'd certainly never known that he had a family plot in this church cemetery.

"I love your hair," Clint said when he saw her. He looked her up and down. "And your dress."

"Thanks," Nat replied, taking the arm he offered her. They walked slowly through the graveyard, making their way to the headstone where they stood, reverently. There were two sets of fresh flowers. Steve, who put new ones there every Sunday, undoubtedly left one set. The other set, judging by the Queen Anne's Lace, must have been from Pepper and Tony.

Clint told about when Phil found him, drunk beyond all reason, in a nameless bar south of the border. Natasha told about her hair.

"Barton here is the sappy type, so he always thanked you," she said slowly. "But I never did. I especially never thanked you for that. You were always so understanding. You were more understanding than I deserved."

Clint had one arm around her waist and one around her shoulders. His nose was in her hair, nuzzling it comfortingly as she spoke.

"So for all the times I didn't say it… thank you."

"You were right about her, buddy," Clint murmured. "She ruined me."

Natasha slapped him playfully, and they walked arm-in-arm back through the graveyard.


	13. Budapest

Agent Clint Barton had risked his life more times than he cared to count (Coulson would have undoubtedly been able to tell him, if he were alive). He'd been backed into corners, outmanned, outgunned, outmatched, abandoned, and grievously injured. He'd experienced equipment failure, lack of backup, emergency anesthesia-less surgery (courtesy of Nat, more often then not), last-minute changes to plans, and operations that just went horribly, completely south.

But never, in his entire time on this earth, be it as a starving, orphaned carnie or a SHIELD agent, had he ever been afraid for his life the way he was right now.

So far, the day had gone perfectly. Strolling through the city, seeing the sights, taking pictures… generally, doing what rich tourists with money to burn did in an exotic city. If only the day would just stay perfect…

Now he had Natasha on his arm as they strolled into the most exclusive restaurant in the city, heading straight for the table he'd reserved earlier. It was in a corner, out of the way of the other patrons, and near a window that offered a fabulous view. It was, in short, the best seat in the house.

Man, he was never going stop owing Tony for this one.

Clint looked at his gorgeous dinner companion over his menu as she studied hers. She was biting her lip softly, the Hungarian posing no problem for her. A shining red curl had escaped the confines of her clip and had fallen in front of her face. The soft candlelight made her hair glow, giving her a red halo. He swallowed hard.

She caught him staring, of course, and looked up to meet his eyes. "What are you thinking?" She asked.

He grinned. "I was just thinking how different this is from the last time we were here."

Natasha returned his smile. "I hear they're still talking about it in the underground."

* * *

" _How many reloads to you have left?"_

_Natasha spared a glance at her utility belt. "Four!" She replied._

_That was more than he'd thought she'd have, but it still wasn't enough to get them out alive. He fired another arrow._

" _See any escape routes?" He asked._

" _None. You?"_

_He didn't reply, firing off another arrow instead. He'd tried to retrieve them when he could, but they were backed into a corner now, stuck between a solid concrete wall and a slab of rock._

_There followed a couple minutes of nothing but the sound of guns firing (and arrows whizzing), before Nat spoke again._

" _I think I know a way out."_

" _And you didn't tell me this sooner because?"_

" _I was hoping that the cavalry Coulson promised would arrive, but no such luck."_

" _I'm pretty sure they went to the wrong location."_

" _Which, technically, is the correct location. We're in the wrong location."_

" _Fuck!" It felt good to swear._

_Natasha ducked behind the slab to reload her guns. She popped up again a moment later, firing with deadly accuracy._

" _So what's your plan?" He asked._

" _You see that stack over in the corner there?"_

_He nodded._

" _Those are our good old friends, C-4s. If you've got any of your Christmas present left…"_

_Clint fitted an exploding tip onto his next arrow and notched it. "This blast is gonna be huge," he warned._

_Natasha nodded._

_Clint fired the arrow._

_He knew that she hadn't told him all of her plan, but he trusted her. Nat's plans were always a little on the psycho side but they'd never failed to pay off. But when he saw what she was doing, his heart flew into his mouth._

_The moment he'd fired the arrow, she leapt onto the top of the slab, firing as she went. She dodged several bullets to reach one of the bodies they'd shot down a few minutes ago, and then began to sprint back towards the protective barrier of the slab. His eyes widened._

_She wasn't going to make it in time._

" _Natasha!"_

_His scream coincided with the loudest sound he had ever heard. 'Boom' simply didn't cover it. His ears popped, several times. Even behind the slab, he was knocked backwards a good foot or two. It took him several seconds to get back on his feet, but once he did, he immediately ran to find her._

_His ears were ringing like the Notre Dame, and the world was still spinning slightly. "Nat!" He cried out. "Nat!"_

_She lay on the ground, the entire back of her uniform blown away. Bits of rock and other debris were imbedded in her back. Angry burn marks and tiny streams of blood marred her skin. Her red hair splayed out around her, covering her face like a death mask. The light hit it, making it glow. It was a bloody halo._

" _Nat!" He rushed to her, picking her up. She didn't respond, didn't move at all. He got down on his knees, flipping her onto her back, pushing her hair away so that he could see her face. He didn't care that there might still be others out there; that he could get shot exposed like this. He didn't care about anything but her._

" _C'mon, Nat!" He cradled her head, his combat first-aid training going out the window in his panic. "Don't leave me, sweetheart, don't leave me."_

_He brought her head up to his chest, holding her tightly. "I love you." He whispered. "I love you."_

_He squeezed her tighter, and there was a slight, wheezy groan. "Clint… don't… hurts to touch…"_

_Clint released her like she was made of molten metal, and she collapsed onto his leg. Her eyes cracked open. "Your hugs hurt," she muttered._

_Now that she was awake, his moment of panic had been replaced by anger. "What the flying fuck were you doing, Nat?" He demanded. "What in the fucking hell was so important that you needed a mother-fucking explosion to get it?"_

_In response, Natasha held up the grappling hook she'd taken from the dead man's belt. "You were out of cables to fire from your arrows."_

_He snatched the grappling hook from her hand and fired it up, where it pierced the skylight and embedded itself in the brick wall of an adjacent building. He hooked one arm around her waist while she wrapped her arms around his neck. He could tell by her stiff posture that she was in pain, but she made no sound and her expression was a study in poker faces. He'd tend to her wounds as soon as he got her out of there._

_Later that night, in a dingy, anonymous room in another section of the city as Natasha lay, bandaged and asleep in the only bed, Clint made himself very clear to Director Fury._

" _No more missions like this again, all right? If I hear that anything, anything at all, is 'like Budapest,' I will personally take out your other eye."_

* * *

"You said that?" Natasha laughed over her wine glass. "You threatened to take out his other eye?"

"Well, it was a hell of a lot nicer than what I wanted to tell him," Clint admitted.

Natasha was still smiling. "You are such a romantic."

"You nearly died, Nat. I don't see why everyone was surprised at how upset I was."

She just shook her head, finishing off the chocolate cake that they'd selected for dessert. "Why are you telling me all of this now?" She asked. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why now? Is it because we're back here again?"

He shrugged. Natasha was not satisfied with that, and pressed further. "Why did you insist on this as our vacation spot, Clint? We could have gone anywhere. Why here? And why now?"

In response, Clint stood up from the table and offered her his arm. Suspicious but ultimately curious and trusting him not to do anything too stupid, Natasha took his arm and allowed him to lead her through the double doors and out onto the street.

The view of the city from their hotel room balcony was breathtaking. Natasha leaned against the rail, enjoying the view. She felt his presence even before he placed his arms on her shoulders and kissed the nape of her neck.

"What is it, Clint?" She asked, turning in his arms. She searched his face, trying to understand, to find some hint as to what this was all about.

"This is where it ended, Nat." He gestured towards the area of the city where they'd leveled a block of housing, where Natasha had nearly died. "It started when, for some damn reason, I couldn't finish the job. It ended when you got blasted with several packets of C-4."

He looked at her, and his hawk eyes were never more piercing then at that moment. "Did you hear what I said to you? What I admitted when I thought I had lost you?"

She shook her head. "The first thing I remember when I woke up was you squeezing me to death. I had fucking third-degree burns, it was a little difficult to focus on what you were saying."

Clint smiled, but his eyes were wet. "I said that I loved you. I told you what I'd known somewhere inside for a while. Maybe I started loving you when I first saw you. I don't know. But when I thought you were gone… that I'd let you slip away from me… it just burst out. It made so much sense, Nat. Loving you made so much sense. It's like it's what I was meant to do."

He brought her closer to him, so that her head was resting on his chest. She brought her arms up to wrap around his neck, clinging tightly.

"When Loki… he… I told him everything. And he told me… things. He could control us, a little, when he wasn't physically in front of us. It wasn't as powerful, but he was still there. He told me about your meeting."

Natasha could barely breathe.

"He gloated about it, about how he was going to make me destroy the thing I loved most. He talked about the horror you'd feel, raped and tortured and… and… all at my hand. You would be destroyed by the man you loved.

"The minute I was better, the minute that you… fixed me, I was horrified. I hated myself, Nat. But there was a tiny piece of joy in there. I knew. I knew that you loved me too. It was the greatest feeling in the world, and I knew that the minute I was finished kicking Loki's ass, I was going to get you to admit it."

Nat smiled against his chest.

Clint pulled back so that he could gaze into her eyes again. "I love you, Nat. We've braved everything--SHIELD protocol, regular bad guys, freaky alien bad guys, demigod bad guys, borderline-crazy superhero teammates, our own souls… and we've come out on top. We've made it. And I know that no matter what the hell else life throws at us, all I want to do is know that we did it. We're together."

He lowered himself to one knee, the tiny box appearing out of nowhere. He lifted the lid.

The diamond was just large enough to suggest wealth, and absolutely flawless, but still small. The setting was plain, the ring itself silver. The cut was beautiful.

"Steve helped with this, didn't he," Natasha said. It wasn't a question.

"He knows his stuff." Clint shrugged. "Tony got us the hotel and the dinner reservation."

"Was everyone in on this?" Nat asked.

Clint's sheepish look was enough of an answer for her.

Natasha could see something she had never before beheld in Clint's eyes--although, if she'd been conscious, she would have heard it in his voice on their mission in Budapest. It was fear.

She decided to allay it.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."

He stared at her.

"Well, Barton, are you going to slip this on my finger or keep kneeling there like a gaping fish?"

Clint was on his feet in an instant, fitting the ring onto her finger. She bit her lip, smiling bashfully down at the glittering piece on her hand. "Thank you."

"For what?" He asked.

She kissed him. "Oh, for not killing me, for believing in me, for babysitting me, for coming back to me… for loving me."

"Well, you're welcome." He grinned, kissing her back.

He hoisted her into his arms, bridal style, and carried her back to their bed. "I love you," he whispered again.

"I love you too," she assured him. "Til aliens, bullets, or our crazy teammates do us part."

From the hotel room next door came the sound of muffled cheering, but neither lover noticed as they divested themselves of their (very expensive) clothing, just as neither had noticed that their room was bugged.

Although, the guilty-slash-smug smiles on the faces of their teammates (and their teammates' wife, and their other teammates' girlfriend), a week later drew plenty of suspicion.


End file.
